It’s over. Buy the suitcases in the car. Fetish, our cat, is in a cage and osier. It’s a déjà that starts with miauler. The return versus Montréal va être long. No vacations in Kennebunk are final destinations. A small week quickly envolée. The times are that you have to keep a little and the changer of color. Quoiqu’on starts déjà à plumer. You say, it’s terrible “flaking”. But it’s more telling “plumer”. It’s a fact.

Toute la famille a le vague à l’âme, or plutôt, comme on est au bord de la mer, on la vague à l’âme. On resterait encore. L’air salin, les oiseaux marins, la plage, les marées, les rochers, le village, les belles maisons de la Nouvelle-Angleterre. When we saw tourists, when the two premiers jours, après, on an impression of your daily life, the rhythm of the place predicated on the rhythm of the place of the notre. When it’s quiet. On s’apaise. La preuve: il ya joujours du trafic sur la route qui longe le bord de la beach. Ben, it is a fact. About the infinite, as a companion, and about your money. It is a rare penser à l’infini.

The infinite life is over. On embarque dans l’auto. If you don’t know that the family is vague, you exclude your father. My father is all pimping. If you have a holiday destination, it’s the return. Read more in September Today in the USit’s okay, i hate reading Press.

Papa is help with the volant, the cigarette is au bec. It’s your choice, my mother, the directions on the cuisses. Derrière, my father, my mother and my mother, with the reading: Bob Morane, Michel Vaillant and the comtesse de Ségur.

On route sur la route 1. La voie est libre, au petit matin. At a certain point it became devant-la-mer. Ma sœur et moi, about muttering: “bye, bye, la mer”, and envoyant la main, comme on le faisait bébé. But more than that, my père d’arrêter:

” Why?

— Just stop here. It won’t take long. »

My mother goes from the Impala. She opens the car’s coffee. When you check it, you choose a chalet. She sorts a napkin, puts on her sundress. She, a son, tights and lingerie. She says to us: “I’m giving you a last sauce.” And she goes to the ocean. My father raises his head: “I’m sorry, then!” It’s not that you can make a choice, if you can make a choice, it’s not that you don’t have time to go to Montreal. I smoked a cigarette.

Nous, as for our mother in the long, and se pleassant les yeux. She is already so small in life, imagine in the sea. My mother is like a fish in the water. On ne lui voit que la tête. At Kennebunk, as an exploit, this dish is complete. It is so that the great number of pleasurers is not as important as the animals. The plus-adventurers are vaguely aware of the fesses and the empressent of the returner when they are alone. My mother can stay more than the duration of the hours. Without turning blue. It is the sky and the ocean that they are.

Hopefully it will only take a few minutes. It will only take a few minutes. Ça ne lui arrives in Jamaica, five minutes without mari, without child, without course, without souci. In the light of the water, in the company of the man, in the reflection of the sun.

Nous, at this point, it’s not that it takes longer, but it only takes a few minutes. It’s vacations à elle.

Throughout the year, the organizer and chef is the resident of the tout, the bouffes, the jeux, the occasional coups, the no coups and the fun.

Before you return to the city, before you re-engage the person in charge of the tout, a conversation about our days, you will be rewarded with a free court.

Ma mère is a moment when ramener is served à la maison. The placer is a coin of a tete and you return the quotidien of the border.

Once you are aware, you must first pay the interest, you invite you to be honest. Enjoy a holiday moment. Juste à vous.

In the water, in the forest, on a terrace, on a balcony, contemplate the horizon. Just relax. Free. Don’t do yoga. Don’t do anything. During the holidays it becomes a film, on a picture. Pour what remains in us. Without it being so if you like it.

My mother is a sortie de l’eau. Her court versus ours. Open the suitcase. If you send your maillot, and you can use the napkin, put on your personal cloak and represent your place in the car.

My father said: “Pis, are you happy?” My mother replied: “Yes.”

It is the moth of the fin. And all that begins.